Sez he, "but mejums lie so like all-split But, come now, ef you wun't confess to knowin', It knows the wind's opinions to a T, An' the wind settles wut the weather 'll be." "I never thought a scion of our stock Could grow the wood to make a weathercock; When I wuz younger 'n you, skurce more 'n a shaver, No airthly wind," sez he, "could make me waver!" (Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an' forehead, Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard.) — "Jes' so it wuz with me," sez I, "I swow, When I wuz younger 'n wut you see me now, Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's bonnet, It's a sight harder to make up my mind, Nor I don't often try tu, when events Will du it for me free of all expense. The moral question 's ollus plain enough, Wut's best to think may n't puzzle me nor you, — Ef you read History, all runs smooth ez grease, Coz there the men ain't nothin' more 'n idees, - Th' idees hev arms an' legs an' stop the way: It's easy fixin' things in facts an' figgers, They can't resist, nor warn't brought up with niggers; But come to try your the'ry on, why, then Your facts an' figgers change to ignʼant men I like the plain all-wool o' common-sense, Thet warms ye now, an' will a twelvemonth hence. You took to follerin' where the Prophets beckoned, An' not to start Millennium too quick; We hain't to punish only, but to keep, An' the cure's gut to go a cent'ry deep." 66 Wal, milk-an' water ain't the best o' glue," Sez he, "an' so you'll find before you're thru ; Loses ez often wut 's ten times the vally. Thet exe of ourn, when Charles's neck gut split, One's chained in body an' can be sot free, Hosee," sez he, "I think you're goin' to fail: The rettlesnake ain't dangerous in the tail; This 'ere rebellion 's nothin' but the rettle, You'll stomp on thet an' think you've won the bettle; It's Slavery thet's the fangs an' thinkin' head, An' ef you want selvation, cresh it dead, An' cresh it suddin, or you 'll larn by waitin' An' knowed jes' where to strike, but there's the rub!" "Strike soon," sez he, "or you'll be deadly ailin', – Folks thet's afeared to fail are sure o' failin'; God hates your sneakin' creturs thet believe No. VII. LATEST VIEWS OF MR. BIGLOW. PRELIMINARY NOTE. [IT is with feelings of the liveliest pain that we inform our readers of the death of the Reverend Homer Wilbur, A. M., which took place suddenly, by an apoplectic stroke, on the afternoon of Christmas day, 1862. Our venerable friend (for so we may venture to call him, though we never enjoyed the high privilege of his personal acquaintance) was in his eightyfourth year, having been born June 12, 1779, at Pigsgusset Precinct (now West Jerusha) in the then District of Maine. Graduated with distinction at Hubville College in 1805, he pursued his theological studies with the late Reverend Preserved Thacker, D. D., and was called to the charge of the First Society in Jaalam in 1809, where he remained till his death. "As an antiquary he has probably left no superior, if, indeed, an equal," writes his friend and colleague, |